


I'm going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else

by akachankami



Series: Absolutely [12]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Pool Party, Silly, like mostly crack really, prompt, very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 04:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12161571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akachankami/pseuds/akachankami
Summary: Tumblr starter prompt: I'm going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything elseDon't take this seriously cause it's  not.





	1. What really happened

"I'm going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else."

"We have- Mom, it's not what it looks like- we... we have swimsuits on," Clarke stammers trying to get out the foam filled pool and slipping on the edge, splashing back in beside her friends, all nodding and mumbling apologies with red cheeks and bright eyes looking everywhere but at her.

Abby sighs. The whole backyard is a mess of soft pink coloured foam dancing like snow carried by the night breeze, or trailing around, peeking through the grass and the flat stones path. Everywhere she looks there are beer bottles and cans, plastic plates and glasses scattered on the lawn and her poor rose bushes... Abby grits her teeth, looking like a crack of doom angel with the backlight from the kitchen, and Raven turns the music down a notch but still smirks in her glass at Monty collecting foam in front of him just in case.

They  _were_  up to no good, after all...

Abby clucks her tongue, skimming her eyes on half a dozen guilty looking kids in her pool, to stop on her daughter again, finally in front of her and dripping pink foamy water all over the porch. Somehow even her hair looks a little pink and Abby can't help furrowing her brow at the horror that the next laundry will be.

"I was out for one day and-"

"You were supposed to be gone the whole weekend! What happened?"

"Don't try to change subjects, Clarke," she admonishes, reviewing in her head what kind of punishment would take her out of the embarrassment of explaining in front of her daughter's friends why she's not on a cruise as planned.

Mostly, she's discarding idea after idea, knowing too well Clarke is not the first teenager in the family to have thrown a party in her parent's absence. After all, ruining their spring break sending the kids home seems unnecessarily harsh.

She's already announcing she'll retreat upstairs and requesting to keep the music low when she's interrupted by the doorbell. At half past midnight it can only mean trouble, and every head turns to the front door with round eyes.

Abby sighs, again. "Let me handle this."

"No!" Clarke grabs her wrist but her hands are wet and slippery and Abby is already scampering down the hall, "Mom, wait!" opening the door to a uniformed man.

"Good evening, madam," says the stern looking officer quite curtly, "We got a call for disturbance of the peace in the neighborhood."

How to counter with that when everyone can hear a dubstep mix of  _Moves Like Jagger_  all the way from her lit backyard. She lets herself squirm partially hidden behind the door, but before she can answer Clarke is beside her (dripping on the carpet as well, she can't help noticing) and judging by the commotion behind her back her friends are out of the pool and running down the hall on their wake, splashing pink water on her parquet.

"It's all under control now," is all she manages to say before Monroe is gently pushing her aside to open the door wide and Harper is grabbing the policeman by the belt, hollering for Nathan.

"He's here!" the girls announce.

"What? Wait!" The man does look surprised when the girls pull him inside and his hands shot to the belt that wet slippery fingers are already stripping off of him as they drag him across the hall to the kitchen and the pool in the backyard.

Clarke is in front of her before she can follow: "Mom, I can explain, we were supposed to go to the club for Nathan's stag party but they wouldn't let us all in because... because they caught Monty and Monroe's fake IDs, and Raven had that foam machine prototype to test anyway, you were supposed to be away and I would have cleaned up everything, I swear, everything before you were back! The stripper was Harper and Monroe's idea, they arranged it, I-"

"Hold on a second, is that a stripper in my backyard?"

"I- well, there were supposed to be two actually..."

Abby frowns, speechless, mirroring her daughter expression for very different reasons.

"Someone called for the police?" says a husky voice behind them just then.

Leaning on the still open door frame is a sun kissed skin uniformed young man, shifting mirror sunglasses down his freckled nose to wink at them when they turn around wide eyed. Behind him, a young girl with dark hair in complicated braids and steely green eyes pops a chewing gum, swinging handcuffs around her finger.

"Oh my God..."

Both Griffin women hurry to the backyard to find a half naked cop flailing in pink foam, deflecting prying hands and joking along with the other kids pushing him around.

"Oh my God," repeats Clarke with a soft giggle for the uncharacteristic scene.

When he finally reemerges, the poor guy is down to his drenched underwear and socks, his discarded blues floating in pink foam at the edge of the pool.

"I'm so sorry," offers Abby handing him a clean bath towel and eyeing the two other uniforms that followed the commotion suit to the pool, in an attempt to avoid looking at the flimsy material of wet underwear sticking to skin.

"Looks like this party's already started," comments the female fake cop with a wolfish grin.

Her partner shrugs. "Let's jump in, Lexa! Who's the party guy?"

Clarke is already diving in foam again, shoving Miller in the middle of the circle of people as her mother picks up what's left of the only  _real_  police officer's soaked belongings from the grass. "I am  _so_  sorry," she repeats shaking the water off one of his shoes and inviting everyone to a chorus of not very heartfelt sounding apologies.

Unexpectedly, he smiles back, securing the towel around his middle. "I wish it was the first time I'm mistaken for a stripper, especially this time of year," he chuckles "But to be pulled into a foam pool is a first."

She bites her lip, cringing. "I'm-"

"Sorry, I know," he interrupts her more business like, "Mrs?"

Rivulets of pinky water drop from his dark hair and trail down his chest. A riveting sight... At least till he combs his fingers through his curls to squeeze it all out and she notices his frown. "Griffin," she manages.

"I'm Officer Kane," he says, "I hope this color will wash away, I've never seen a foam machine quite like that," he comments pointing to Raven's assembled, unauthorized and unapproved device on the side of the pool.

Abby blushes. There are underage teens drinking alcoholics in a pool filled with homemade pink foam, two strippers and a naked cop in her backyard. How did she stoop so low? She thinks he can probably see the gears in her head spin faster as she tries to come up with a plan that won't end up with her paying a ridiculously expensive fine or some  _other_  responsible adult bailing them all out of jail.

"We can talk inside," he suggests instead, "you don't wanna be a witness to  _that_."

"No," agrees Abby with a last look at her daughter's now pink hair as she's lifted up above the stripper's head and dropped back into the water in a chorus of whistles and laughters, "I don't think I want."

He smiles back at her sympathetically and follows her to the kitchen.

Abby has a very solid explanation about how things escalated from there, later, when Clarke wanders back into the house at dawn for a glass of water. A  _very_  solid one... as solid as Marcus Kane's body pressed against hers, or his hand cupping her bottom inside her jeans, or his...

"Mom?"

But she is too distracted and surprised, and puzzled by the turn of events to voice any of it, so she just stares back at Clarke, gaping.

Her daughter squints at them, tangled in each other and flushed with lust and...  _pudency_.

"I know what it looks like, Clarke, but-"

Despite the fact she's still fully clothed and  _Officer Kane_  is back into his now washed and pressed uniform, she must admit Clarke has a point in echoing her earlier words with a hint of sarcasm:

"I'm going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else."


	2. How did it happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right before and in the middle.  
> Very crack.

She can't.

She just can't do it, she watches people passing by, dragging their trolleys and bags up the ramp on the other side of the fence, making up stories for every one of them as she rubs the place on her finger where the ring used to be. She watches them from behind her windshield and realizes she has no interest in knowing any of them. Not like this anyway.

Of course there is the two thousand dollar ticket advanced payment to take into account, but ultimately she decides she doesn't want to be on a boat for three days and four nights and be forced to socialize. And even if Diana Sydney found her third husband on board one of these  _single cruises_ , it doesn't mean Abby Griffin will be as lucky... Or as easily pleased.

So why did she purchase that ticket in the first place? What made her think it was a good idea to try and have a romantic life again, after two years?  _Nothing, it was a terrible idea, Abby, look at yourself, sitting in your car for over an hour at the docks parking lot like a drug dealer_ , her conscience lectures.

Maybe after the divorce she still isn't ready, or maybe she was never made for hook-ups. Or perhaps it's another commitment she doesn't want in the end and all she needs is a one-night-stand to take off the edge. The ship horn finally makes her snap out of it. She starts the car and drives away, mentally cursing herself.

Leaving the port behind is easier said than done though, she has a lot of time stuck in traffic to keep replaying in her head just how awkward it's going to be not having any real good plausible explanation as to why exactly she is back home for spring break when she's promised Clarke she could have the house for a sleepover just a few hours ago. The more she thinks about it the less probable her lies sounds:  _I lost my (electronic) ticket and they wouldn't let me on board_. Which is easily debunked because she has multiple e-mails with the tracked purchase she could pull up on her phone in a few seconds.  _I was late for boarding_. Except she's left the house after lunch, four hours before the scheduled meet-up time.  _I waited for over two hours but the cruise ship never docked_. She mentally slaps herself for this one.

Abby ponders her options over chicken quesadilla in a part of town she never wanders by chance, and ultimately settles on  _emergency call from the hospital_  as she drives home after discarding any notion she might spend even more money on a hotel room to cover up this silly attempt at living it up.

It all backfires when she stumbles on her daughter's impromptu foam pool party, the two fake cop strippers and the naked policeman in her backyard.

She's a forty-two year old cardiothoracic surgeon, and yet all she can manage to utter past her lips in front of a half naked cop - potentially charging tipsy underage teens under her care - are empty apologies Officer Kane brushes off (like the pink water from his curls) nonchalantly.

Is this the first sign of a middle age crisis? Temporary (hopefully) alexithymia and the lexicon extension of a five years old? Are her hormones going crazy already?

"Don't worry," Officer Kane reassures her once they're in the kitchen, "I see the kids are just having some fun, the music is low enough, and there's an adult supervising."

"I- Yes, of course, I am. Here. Now." Stammering sure won't help, he must think her an idiot by now. She fights the blush creeping up her neck, unsuccessfully.

"Right, I need to..." he says pointing at the front door on the other end of the hall, leaving the sentence to her imagination, and backs off wrapped in Monroe's Coca Cola beach towel, dripping on her hardwood floor as she nods politely and clueless.

He must be the most relaxed, down to earth policeman she's ever met, she muses, they might have just dodged disorderly conduct charges, assault on a police officer, underage alcohol consumption... not to mention a more accurate check on Raven's handmade foam machine and those young dancers in her pool. She can't believe their luck.  _Her_  luck?

She goes about the motions in autopilot, picking up discarded clothes from the floor, piling up dirty dishes in the sink, mind still reeling in the downfall of her spring break plans, scratching her bare ring finger. When the underdressed cop steps back in, she's already made coffee so she offers him a cup.

"No thanks," he declines, "I should just head back downtown, I radioed the situation," he informs her lifting the device in his hand, "And- I'm not going to fine you," he adds barely containing a mocking smirk at her round eyes, "I was vague enough in my report on how I got into a pool. I just need my uniform back and I'll leave."

Abby chases from her mind speculations on her neighbours gossiping about a naked man coming and going from her front door for weeks after tonight, and furrows her brow at the request: "Oh, I put it in the washing machine. It'll just take about an hour with the short program and the dryer."

It's his turn to stare back dumbfounded. "What?"

"What?" she repeats with that feeling of being stuck in a neverending loop of horrors. What happened to the ever confident woman who purchased a cruise ticket last month? Why is this guy making her feel like a schoolgirl? "Oh, you can obviously send a professional laundry bill to this address, afterwards," she offers waving her coffee cup in the air to emphasize the self-evidence of the statement and cover up the ever deepening blush.

He just stands in the middle of her kitchen, blinking off drops from his dark hair. That tips her off on how ridiculous the whole situation is.

"I'm still on duty," he points out. "I might get another call, I can't wait around for the laundry."

_Oh_. Of course. What was she thinking? She giggles. She  _never_  giggles.

Somehow, the lopsided smirk and the one raised brow look tell her he thinks she's  _flirting_.

Is she? Inadvertently, that is. She doesn't even know how to flirt anymore, God, this is awkward. She should have thought best to send the policeman out the door before he changed his mind and started asking questions and IDs, and yet she's offering coffee and doing laundry, all around making a fool of herself.

Was she really flirting? It's official: she's lost her mind.

He frowns.

"There are two other perfectly dry uniforms discarded in my backyard," she dares suggesting, sipping from her cup, never breaking eye contact.

His gaze wanders to the window but he catches up quickly with her idea and snorts a strangled, embarrassed laugh. "It's not- those are not... real," he chokes out, hands on his hips and bare chest heaving in front of her.

"I wouldn't know the difference," she reasons, "and it's just in case, anyway, you might spend the night sitting in my kitchen and not get a call."

Which seems to be an attractive idea after all.

"Wouldn't you have civilian clothes to lend me, perhaps?"

Unfortunately Jake, her ex-husband, had taken everything with him when he left to be a freelance war photoreporter in what was his own middle age crisis, so Abby watches Kane exchanging a couple of words with the freckled boy in the USA flag tanga from her porch, the kids laugh at what he says and Raven mouths something at her she can't understand (but Clarke is blushing so it can't be anything she needs to hear).

"This just doesn't feel right," mutters Officer Kane, wriggling inside the tight shirt once he's out of the bathroom, ten minutes later, "Why are these pockets fake, who needs fake pockets?"

Abby chuckles, resting her cup of coffee on the kitchen island to straighten his collar. "You look just fine."

He towel dried his hair and they are now a mass of curls sticking out in every direction, giving a certain boyish look about him that Abby finds even more appealing. She resists the urge to finger comb them back and busies herself picking invisible lints instead.

"I could be getting into trouble for this, you already have a bad influence on me, Mrs Griffin," he says faking seriousness.

She keeps a poker face but can't help chewing on her bottom lip. "I don't know, Officer, you seemed to be a rebel before I even met you."

She does steal a grin this time and he accepts a cup of coffee after that, sitting on a stool by the kitchen island.

"So, which one of them is yours?" he asks pointing at the foam covered teens in her pool.

"Clarke is the blonde one. With pink hair now," she corrects herself sitting beside him on another stool.

He smiles spotting her daughter on the side of the pool with another girl's arm flung around her shoulders, cheering on as the boys jump in foam producing various amounts of splashed water on her rose bushes.

For a few minutes they watch silently, sipping coffee, then he asks: "Did you know about the strippers?"

What would be the right answer to that, muses Abby. If she says she did, she's going to look like an irresponsible, immoral parent, if she says she didn't then... she's probably another clueless, outdated human like any other parent of teens.

"I didn't," she confesses.

"Don't worry, Bellamy and Lexa are good kids, they mostly dance and put on a show but nothing out of boundaries."

Abby turns to look at the cop with renewed wonder. "You knew them."

Kane's lips stretch into a little benevolent smirk. "As I said, I've been mistaken for a stripper before. We bumped into each other a couple times last year, they're good kids," he repeats looking right at her. "I don't want to get them in trouble over nothing."

"I knew you've left me off the hook too easily."

Kane shifts on the stool. "Well, there's coffee and... laundry service..." he chuckles.

"You make it sound like I'm bribing you," she taunts.

Then something catches his eye and his hand comes covering hers, stopping her fingers rubbing at her absent ring. "You'll hurt yourself," he chides gently.

She blushes almost instantly, a shiver filled with panic and shame travels down her spine and leaves her chilly. He's a cop, he's trained to be observant and he's probably curious by nature, she tells herself, his look is more expectant than inquisitive and she wonders if that's how weak people crack under pressure and confess crimes.

She licks her lips. "I've been divorced for two years now, but I've kept wearing the ring to avoid unwanted attention at work." He nods, and she realizes how it might sound, so quickly adds: "But I- I was supposed to be on a cruise this weekend and it seemed inappropriate to wear it," she says as if it should clarify anything.

If his squint is anything to go by, she's only poking at his curiosity even more.

And now, how to explain  _that_  without spilling all about her not really knowing about her daughter's party relocation or the nature of the cruise she was supposed to attend, and somehow still sound like a trustworthy citizen?

"Long story," she lies.

"Well, we do have forty-five more minutes," he presses now intrigued, a little mesmerized smile teasing the corners of his mouth, "How did you favor supervising a teen pool party over a cruise vacation?"

She should have decided first if she was up to one-night-stands or only on the lookout for committed relationships after all. Did she keep the ring on for so long because she was still in love with her ex husband? Does taking it off mean she's not anymore? What's the difference between conversing with strangers on a cruise ship dock and chatting with a police officer over coffee in her kitchen?

"I'm picky about the company," she admits in the end.

He hums his understanding, leans on the counter and sips his coffee.

Abby feels that treacherous flush creep up her chest again. Did he take it as a compliment or an insult? If a few minutes ago she was afraid to come off shamelessly self-advertising, now she fears he thinks her uninterested. The dangerous ground starts when she touches at the question  _why do you want him to think you're interested, but at the same time not easy?_

His radio chooses that moment to croak alive: "Come in," he answers.

The operator asks if he's available to check on an attempted property entrance not far from there and she thinks she reads a flash of panic passing in his eyes before he frowns and answers already standing.

Abby follows him to the door as he collects more information, she grabs a sharpie from the grocery list whiteboard on the wall then claims his hand.

"What's that?" he asks skeptical, looking at the writing on his palm.

"My cell phone number, so you won't have to ring the doorbell and wake anyone, later..." she babbles feeling increasingly stupid. "That's how Clarke sneaks out when she doesn't want her friends to wake me up with pebbles."

He laughs almost shyly, promises to be back soon, and drives away.

Abby wanders back in the kitchen, scratching her head at the whole absurd situation. Boldly throwing herself at some handsome stranger seems so unlikely of her, and wasn't that exactly why she ran away from the docks a few hours earlier? What's with Officer Kane that's making her all hot and bothered?  _Hormones_ , she concludes, it must be an early menopause or something. Something...

He smells nice, she observes. Which doesn't mean anything, Dr. Jaha smells of overpriced cologne but she never felt the urge to touch his hair. Maybe it's his hair.  _How shallow can you be, Abby_ , she scolds herself washing the two used cups of coffee.

When she hears the beeping of the washing machine, autopilot kicks in again and twenty minutes later she's already ironed and neatly folded Kane's uniform like the perfect housewife she never was.

The music is turned lower and lower in her backyard, till Monty brings out his guitar and his friends all gather around to sing along.

Abby mostly leaves them be, peeking from time to time through the kitchen curtains. She takes a book to the living-room and reads by the window where she can see the street from her couch. That's how she sees Kane's police car pull over a little over three in the morning and she greets him opening the door before he can knock, or text.

"You're back!"

In a completely over dramatic gesture neither of them planned nor imagined before it happened, they run into each other's arms like long lost lovers in a silent movie.

"What happened?" he asks concerned. Barefeet, Abby fits perfectly under his chin and before he pulls away to look her in the eyes her heart skips a beat.

Feeling incredibly stupid, Abby is forced to admit: "Nothing." And like that wasn't enough, she adds: "I was worried."

He tilts his head and confusion transforms into surprise. "Oh."

"I- I am so sorry, I sound ridiculous, I just-  _Attempted property entrance_  sounded-"

He smiles back. "No, it's- It was only a stray dog wandering in the neighborhood backyards, it took so long because I had to wait for Animal Control," he shrugs.

She's still smoothing invisible wrinkles on his shirt and she forces herself to stop touching him for no reason. "Did it work?"

"It fooled everyone."

They both grin at each other and she  _is_  looking at his lips. Who is this Abigail Griffin ready to kiss strangers without a thought for consequences? But he's looking at her too and he can't be thinking she's still trying to make him forget to report the mess he stepped into when she first opened the door, and he can't be thinking she's used to seducing strangers because she clearly isn't very good at it.

Her ears burn up and his chuckles reverberate through his ribcage right to her core.

"Don't laugh at me, I haven't done this in twenty years at least," she pouts shuffling on the threshold to close the door behind them.

He might kiss her then, if Bellamy doesn't awkwardly peek inside the house looking for his uniform. Or he might kiss her when he comes out of the bathroom once again, appropriately dressed, but he doesn't.

"I'm still on duty," he says by the door.

"Of course."

"Till 6AM." It's less than three hours away and she must be looking like a mess of lack of sleep and confusion already. Yet the look in his eyes makes her insides melt. "Did you put a spell in that coffee?" he jokes.

Worst than teenagers. She doesn't remember it being that difficult when she was her daughter's age, and she should have gained in confidence and experience at forty-two, instead she snort-laughs at him and shakes her head. They are both terrible at this, maybe it's fate. It has to be, she cannot make any sense of the night otherwise.

"I'll make more for later," she promises with a kiss on his cheek.


End file.
